I’ve canned transient attraction.

Our loose palate roots will digest you with raw hunger. You stroke their bowels and ponder a million. Numbers are abysmal. You are forgotten without an orgy of tears.

Over indulgence has bred me anew and celibate. I thirst and lick at a casket of salt; rusted letters illustrate morbid reminiscence of when you swam like a fattened halibut in my belly. The salt cures this and I rest fulfilled.

I am a loose nut whose response to the wrench is un-mechanical.

I am surreal and chemical; my synthetic soul is wooed by overhead static of the trolley car cable. I wear suits of blackened styrofoam and spit transgender smirks at fee-line females. Mating calls in the form of jingling George’s sound from my palm. The steeply priced cats only want green, I refuse to pay tiding and proceed to fillet their mannerisms.